Honor Among Thieves

by Jeffrey Archer

  “No, he is not, sir,” interjected Monsieur Franchard, as prearranged with Cavalli, “because he has entrusted the document’s safekeeping to our bank. But I can confirm that, as soon as the agreed sum has been transferred, I have been given power of attorney to release the document immediately.”

  “But that is not what we agreed,” interrupted Dummond, who leaned forward, feigning shock, before adding, “My client’s government has no intention of paying another penny without full scrutiny of the document. You agreed to deliver it here by midday, and in any case we still have to be convinced of its authenticity.”

  “That is understood by my client,” said Monsieur Franchard. “Indeed, you are most welcome to attend my office at any time convenient to you in order to carry out such an inspection. Following that inspection, the moment you have transferred the agreed amount the document will be released.”

  “This is all very well,” countered Monsieur Dummond, pushing his half-moon spectacles back up his nose, “but your client has failed to keep to his original agreement, which in my view allows my client’s government”—he emphasized the word “government”—“to reconsider its position.”

  “My client felt it prudent, under the circumstances, to protect his interest by depositing the document in his own bank for safekeeping,” came back the immediate reply from Monsieur Franchard.

  Anyone watching the two bankers sparring with each other might have been surprised to learn that they played chess together every Saturday night, which Monsieur Franchard invariably won, and tennis after lunch on Sunday, which he regularly lost.

  “I cannot accept this new arrangement,” said Al Obaydi, speaking for the first time. “My government has charged me to pay only a further forty million dollars if the original agreement is breached in any way.”

  “But this is ridiculous!” said Cavalli, his voice rising with every word. “We are quibbling over a matter of a few hours at the most and a building less than half a mile away. And as you well know, the figure agreed on was ninety million.”

  “But you have since broken our agreement,” said Al Obaydi, “so the original terms can no longer be considered valid by my government.”

  “No ninety million, no document!” said Cavalli, banging his fist on the table.

  “Let us be realistic, Mr. Cavalli,” said Al Obaydi. “The document is no longer of any use to you, and I have a feeling you would have settled for fifty million in the first place.”

  “That is not the—”

  Monsieur Franchard touched Cavalli’s arm. “I would like a few minutes alone with my client.”

  “Of course,” said Monsieur Dummond, rising from his place. “We will leave you. Please press the button under the table the moment you wish us to return.”

  Monsieur Dummond and his client left the room without another word.

  “He’s bluffing,” said Cavalli. “He’ll pay. I know it.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Franchard.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The use of the words ‘my government.’”

  “What does that tell us that we didn’t already know?”

  “The expression was repeated four times,” said Franchard, “which suggests to me that the financial decision has been taken out of the hands of Mr. Al Obaydi, and only forty million has been deposited by his government with Dummond et cie.”

  Cavalli began pacing round the room, but suddenly stopped by the phone which rested on a small side table.

  “I presume that’s bugged,” said Cavalli, pointing at the phone.

  “No, Mr. Cavalli, it is not.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked his client.

  “Monsieur Dummond and I are currently involved in several transactions, and he would never allow our relationship to suffer for the sake of one deal. And in any case, he sits on the opposite side of the table from you today but, like every Swiss banker, that won’t stop him from thinking of you as a potential customer.”

  Cavalli checked his watch. It was 6:20 A.M. in New York. His father would have been up for at least an hour. He jabbed out the fourteen numbers and waited.

  His father answered the phone, sounding wide awake, and after preliminary exchanges listened carefully to his son’s account of what had taken place in the bank’s boardroom. Cavalli also repeated Monsieur Franchard’s view of the situation. The chairman of Skills didn’t take long considering what advice he should give his son, advice which took Cavalli by surprise.

  He replaced the phone and informed Monsieur Franchard of his father’s opinion.

  Monsieur Franchard nodded as if to show he agreed with the older man’s judgment.

  “Then let’s get on with it,” said Cavalli reluctantly. Monsieur Franchard pressed the button under the boardroom table.

  Monsieur Dummond and his client entered the room a few moments later and returned to the seats they had previously occupied. The old banker pushed his half-moon spectacles up his nose once again and stared over the top of them as he waited for Monsieur Franchard to speak.

  “If the transaction is completed within one hour, we will settle for forty million dollars. If not, the deal is off and the document will be returned to the United States.”

  Dummond removed his spectacles and turned to glance at his client. He was pleased that Franchard had picked up the significance of “my government,” a phrase he had recommended Mr. Al Obaydi should repeat as often as possible.

  “White House?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I speak to the President’s scheduler, please?”

  “Can I ask who’s calling?”

  “Marshall, Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States. And before you ask, yes, I do know her, and yes, she is expecting my call.”

  The line went dead. Marshall wondered if he had been cut off.

  “Patty Watson speaking.”

  “Patty, this is Calder Marshall. I’m the—”

  “Archivist of the United States.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m a great fan of yours, Mr. Marshall. I’ve even read your book on the history of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights and the Declaration. How can I help you? Are you still there, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Yes, Patty, I am. I only wanted to check on the President’s schedule on the morning of May 25th this year.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll just be a moment.”

  The Archivist did not have long to wait.

  “Ah yes, May 25th. The President spent the morning in the Oval Office with his speech writers, David Kusnet and Carolyn Curiel. He was preparing the text for his address on the GATT at the Chicago Council on Foreign Relations. He took a break to have lunch with Senator Mitchell, the Majority Leader. At three, the President—”

  “Did President Clinton remain in the White House the whole morning?”

  “Yes, sir. He didn’t leave the White House all day. He spent the afternoon with Mrs. Clinton in discussions with her health-policy task unit.”

  “Could he have slipped out of the building without even you knowing, Patty?”

  The scheduling secretary laughed. “That’s not possible, sir. If he had done that, the Secret Service would have informed me immediately.”

  “Thank you, Patty.”

  “Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

  Once the meeting at Dummond et cie had broken up, Cavalli returned to his hotel room to wait for Franchard to call and confirm that the sum of forty million dollars had been deposited in his No. 3 account in Zurich.

  As long as the transaction was closed within the hour, he would still have easily enough time to catch the 4:45 out of Geneva for Heathrow and make the early-evening connection to New York.

  Cavalli began to get a little anxious after thirty minutes passed and there had been no call, and even more so after forty. After fifty, he found himself pacing around the room, staring out at the fountain and checking his watch every few moments.
r />   When the phone eventually rang, he grabbed it.

  “Mr. Cavalli?” inquired a voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “Franchard here. The document has been verified and taken away. It might interest you to know that Mr. Al Obaydi studied one word on the parchment for some time before he agreed to transfer the money. The agreed sum has been credited to your No. 3 account in Zurich as you specified.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Franchard,” said Cavalli without further comment.

  “My pleasure, as always, Mr. Cavalli. And is there anything else we can do for you while you’re here?”

  “Yes,” replied Cavalli. “I need to transfer a quarter of a million dollars to a bank in the Cayman Islands.”

  “The same name and account as the last three transactions?” asked the banker.

  “Yes,” replied Cavalli. “And the Zurich account, presently registered in the name of Mr. Al Obaydi: I want to withdraw one hundred thousand dollars from it and…”

  Monsieur Franchard listened carefully to his client’s further instructions.

  * * *

  “State Department.”

  “Can I speak to the Secretary of State?”

  “Just a moment.”

  “Office of the Secretary.”

  “This is Calder Marshall. I’m the Archivist of the United States. It’s vitally important that I speak with Secretary Christopher.”

  “I’ll put you through to his Executive Assistant, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Marshall, and waited for a short time.

  “This is Jack Leigh. I’m Executive Assistant to the Secretary. How may I help you, sir?”

  “To start with, Mr. Leigh, how many Executive Assistants does the Secretary of State have?”

  “Five, sir, but there is only one senior to me.”

  “Then I need to speak to the Secretary of State urgently.”

  “Right now he’s out of the office. Perhaps the Deputy Secretary can help?”

  “No, Mr. Leigh, he cannot help.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly let Secretary Christopher know you called, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Leigh. And perhaps you’d be kind enough to pass a message on to him?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Would you let him know that my resignation will be on his desk tomorrow morning by nine A.M. This call is simply to apologize for the harm it will undoubtedly do to the President, particularly given the short period of time he has been in office.”

  “You haven’t spoken to anyone from the media about this, have you, sir?” asked the Executive Assistant, sounding anxious for the first time.

  “No, I have not, Mr. Leigh, and I shall not do so until noon tomorrow, which should give the Secretary ample time in which to prepare answers to any questions that he and the President will undoubtedly be asked by the press when they learn my reason for resigning.”

  “I’ll have the Secretary get back to you as quickly as I can, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Leigh.”

  “Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

  She flew into the Cayman Islands that morning and took a taxi to Barclays Bank in Georgetown. She checked her account to find it had been credited with three payments of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One on March 9th, another on April 27th, and a further one on May 30th.

  There was one still to come. But, to be fair, Cavalli might not learn of the death of T. Hamilton McKenzie until he had returned from Geneva.

  “And we have another package for you, Miss Webster,” said the smiling West Indian behind the counter.

  Far too familiar, she thought. Once again the time had come to move her account to another bank in another country, in another name. She dropped the package into her carrier bag, threw it over her shoulder and left without a word.

  She didn’t attempt to open the thick brown envelope until she had called for coffee at the end of an unhurried meal at a hotel she would never book into. She then carefully slit open the top of the bulky package with her bread knife, allowing the contents to spill out onto the table.

  The usual photos, from every angle, plus addresses past and present, and the daily habits and haunts of the intended victim. Cavalli never left any room for mistakes.

  She studied the photos of a little fat man sitting on a bar stool. He looked harmless enough. The contract was always the same. To be carried out within fourteen days. Payment two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to account specified.

  It wasn’t Columbus or Washington this time, but San Francisco. She hadn’t been to the West Coast in years, and she tried to remember if they had a Laura Ashley store.

  “National Archives.”

  “Mr. Marshall please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Christopher. Warren Christopher.”

  “And you’re with which agency?”

  “I have a feeling he’ll know.”

  “I’ll put you through, sir.” The Secretary waited patiently.

  “Calder Marshall speaking.”

  “Calder, it’s Warren Christopher.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Good morning, Calder. I’ve just received your letter of resignation.”

  “Yes, sir. I thought it was the only course of action I could take under the circumstances.”

  “Very commendable, I feel sure, but have you let anyone else into your confidence?”

  “No, sir. I intended to brief my staff at eleven, and hold a press conference at twelve, as stated in my letter. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you, sir.”

  “Well, I wondered if before you did that, you might find the time to have a meeting with the President and myself?”

  Marshall hesitated only because the request had taken him by surprise.

  “Of course. What time would suit you?”

  “Shall we say ten o’clock?”

  “Yes, sir. Where would you like me to come?”

  “The North Entrance of the White House.”

  “The North Entrance, of course.”

  “Jack Leigh, my Executive Assistant, will meet you in the West Wing reception area and accompany you to the Oval Office.”

  “The Oval Office.”

  “And Calder…”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Please do not mention your resignation to anyone until you’ve seen the President.”

  “Until I’ve seen the President. Of course.”

  “Thank you, Calder.”

  “Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’d like to begin by thanking you all for attending this meeting at such short notice,” said the Secretary of State. “And, in particular, Scott Bradley, who has only recently recovered from—” Christopher hesitated for a moment, “a near-tragic accident. I know we are all delighted by the speed of his recovery. I should also like to welcome Colonel Kratz, who is representing the Israeli Government, and Dexter Hutchins, the Deputy Director of the CIA.

  “Only two of my staff are with me today: Jack Leigh, my executive assistant, and Susan Anderson, one of my senior Middle East advisers. The reason for numbers being limited on this occasion will become all too obvious to you. The issue we are about to discuss is so sensitive that the fewer people who are aware of it, the better. To suggest in this instance that silence is golden would be to underestimate the value of gold.

  “Perhaps, at this juncture, I could ask the Deputy Director of the CIA to bring us up-to-date on the latest situation. Dexter.”

  Dexter Hutchins unlocked his briefcase and removed a file marked “For the Director’s Eyes Only.” He placed the file on the table in front of him and turned its cover.

  “Two days ago, Mr. Marshall, the Archivist of the United States, reported to the Secretary of State that the Declaration of Independence had been stolen from the National Archives; or, to be more accurate, had been switched for a quite brilliant copy that had passed not only the scrut
iny of Mr. Marshall, but also that of the Senior Conservator, Mr. Mendelssohn.

  “It was only when Mr. Marshall attempted to recontact a Mr. Rex Butterworth, who had been temporarily assigned to the White House as a Special Assistant to the President, that he became worried.”

  “If I could just interject, Mr. Hutchins,” said Jack Leigh, “and point out that though Mr. Butterworth was a former employee of the Commerce Department, should the press ever get hold of this you can be certain they would only refer to him as a ‘Special Assistant to the President.’ ” Warren Christopher nodded his agreement.

  “When Calder Marshall discovered that Butterworth hadn’t returned after his vacation,” continued Dexter Hutchins, “and that he had also left without giving a forwarding address, he naturally became suspicious. Under the circumstances, he considered it prudent to ask Mr. Mendelssohn to check and see if the Declaration had in any way been tampered with. After putting the parchment through several preliminary tests—a separate memorandum has been sent to all of you on this—he came to the conclusion that they were still in possession of the original document.

  “But Mr. Marshall, a cautious man, remained skeptical, and contacted the President’s scheduler, Miss Patty Watson—details also enclosed. Following that conversation, he asked the Conservator to carry out a more rigorous scrutiny.

  “Mr. Mendelssohn spent several hours alone that evening going over the parchment word by word with a magnifying glass. It was when he came to the sentence, ‘Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren,’ that the Conservator realized that the word ‘British’ had been spelled correctly, and not with two t’s as in the original Declaration executed by Timothy Matlack. When this piece of news was imparted to Mr. Marshall, he immediately offered his resignation to the Secretary of State, a copy of which you all have.”

  “If I could come in here, Dexter,” said Secretary Christopher. “Just for the record, the President and I saw Mr. Marshall in the Oval Office yesterday. He could not have been more cooperative. He assured us that he and his colleague, Mr. Mendelssohn, will say and do nothing in the immediate future. He did add, however, his feeling of disgust at continuing to display a counterfeit copy of the Declaration to the general public. He made us both, that is to say the President and myself, agree that should we fail to recover the original document before its disappearance becomes common knowledge, we would confirm that his resignation had been dated May 25th, 1993 and accepted on that date by myself as custodian of the Declaration. He wished it confirmed in writing that he had in no way connived to deceive his staff or the nation he served. ‘I am not in the habit of being deceitful,’ were his final words before leaving the Oval Office.